9Sometimes even a middling card can take the trick.
Careful,” Phoebe called out, as Rose and Henry clamored to pull themselves up to see over the gates. It was her general refrain whenever they were in the stables.
Or near the stables, she realized. Or outside. Or inside. Anytime they were awake, the most oft-used word in Phoebe’s governess repertoire was careful. She had really better begin thinking of some synonyms, she mused, else the children end up with limited vocabularies.
“Caution!” she tried, as Rose bounded her way up the gate and reached a hand over to pet the tail of the butterscotch gelding in its stall. The patient horse was old and slow, only used to pull the cart. However, regardless of the horse’s temperament, no one liked having their tail pulled.
“Miss Rose, stroking Sunshine’s mane has very little to do with her tail,” Phoebe warned. But as the inattentive young girl’s hand still reached toward the horse’s rear, she had to reach out and grab it. “Or should we go back inside and begin a lesson in biology and anatomy?”
“I’m just trying to get him to turn around,” Rose said mournfully, withdrawing her hand.
“Well, he would turn around, and likely unhappily, too,” Phoebe remarked dryly.
“You told us we didn’t have to learn inside today, because it’s our reward,” Henry piped up, his interest in staring into the dark brown eyes of one of Sir Nathan’s matched chestnuts in the next stall momentarily interrupted by the threat of going indoors.
“Really?” came a surprised voice at the end of the corridor. “What are you being rewarded for?”
Phoebe whipped her head around. There, in the entrance to the stable, stood a dark-haired man holding two horses by their reins. For the briefest moment she panicked, thinking it was the Earl of Ashby, and she would actually have to talk to him. But then he stepped farther into the stable, and the light adjusted around him.
“Oh, Mr. Turner,” she said stiffly, choking down any visible sign of relief. Even if he wasn’t the earl, he still didn’t need to see the governess acting loose with the children.
“Henry, look! It’s the pretty one!” Rose’s interest in Sunshine’s tail disappeared as she ran up to Mr. Turner to gaze raptly at the impressive stallion, so dark a brown he was almost black. The horse danced for a moment in front of the girl, but a steady hand from Mr. Turner settled him.
“They are not being rewarded,” Phoebe began quickly. “We are having a lesson on basic physiology.”
“We are?” Henry asked.
“What’s physiology?” Rose turned her head.
“Physiology is the study of living things. And how they work,” Phoebe answered with pointed patience. “And today we are studying the horses. The, uh . . . the foreleg is connected to the . . . well, on a human it would be the shoulder . . .”
“It’s the humerus bone,” Mr. Turner answered for her.
“Really?” Her eyes shot up to his. Unconsciously, her hand moved to her own upper arm. “But on humans, the humerus is up here.”
“Yes, but on horses, it’s basically the shoulder.”
“But then what is the lower joint?” she asked, fascinated. “Er, on the horse’s leg.”
“It’s like the palm of your hand—the joint’s the wrist,” he replied. “Animals are stretched out differently than humans.”
“Miss Baker, you told us we didn’t have to learn any more today,” Rose warned. “This stuff sounds a lot like learning.”
“Well, perhaps it is something I wished to learn,” she replied patiently. “Or your brother might like to know it.”
Henry did indeed seem to be listening, patient child that he was, but Rose did not have her brother’s contemplative nature. She had been promised time to admire the horses, and that was exactly what she wanted.
“But our reward!” Rose said.
“Your reward for what, precisely?” Mr. Turner asked as he handed to a groom both the horses he had walked into the stables. Rose’s eyes followed the earl’s beautiful stallion as he was taken away to be brushed, cleaned, fed. Mr. Turner seemed to have the same affinity for the horse that Rose did, because he called after the groom, “Only oats and carrots for Abandon, if you please!”
He clocked the look the groom gave him—and then the look Phoebe was giving him. “Er—the earl prefers a certain diet for his horse.”
Phoebe nodded. They were saved from having to make any further conversation by Rose’s jumping up and down and answering Mr. Turner’s now twice-asked question.
“We get the afternoon off from lessons because of what a good job I did at the Questioning yesterday!”
“The Questioning?” he replied, his eyes turning to her.
“Before last night’s dinner,” Phoebe supplied. “The children call it a Questioning.”
“I can see why,” Mr. Turner replied stiffly. “You deserve your afternoon off. And how did you know the answer to thirteen times thirteen?”
But Rose just shrugged. “I figured it out.”
“Well,” Mr. Turner said, blinking, “that’s very . . .”
Oh God, what was he going to say? After all, he hadn’t known the answer. Would he be angry at having been shown up by a child? A girl?
“Very clever,” he finished, and this time Phoebe could not contain her relief.
“Thank you.” Rose beamed.
“But if you don’t have to learn anything else this afternoon, then what are you going to tell your parents at the Questioning tonight?”
Two little faces fell in unison, into confused recollection.
“We’ve already decided what we learned today. Right, children?” Phoebe prodded. “Rose did the multiplication tables to twenty this morning, as requested.” Rose nodded brightly, as if—oh, yes!—she did learn something today. “And Henry, what did you learn?”
“That the arm bone is funny.”
Phoebe could only blink at him. Mr. Turner blinked in concert.
“Where did you learn that?” she asked.
“From you—you said it was humorous,” Henry replied. Then, changing topics with the audacious speed of a child, “May Rose and I go watch them brush down the horses?”
She threw a glance to Mr. Turner. Who seemed frozen. His dark eyes sought hers, and with them, a decision.
“All right, but don’t get in Kevin’s way.” The children ran off to the other end of the stables, where the earl’s horse and Mr. Turner’s were enjoying their dinners. “The groom,” she clarified to Mr. Turner.
He nodded his understanding.
“Be careful,” she called after the children. “Guarded! Mindful!”
“Punctilious?” Mr. Turner supplied from beside her.
“Punctilious.” She nodded. “I will have to make use of that one.”
And then . . . silence.
Now that they were left alone by themselves in the far side of the stables, the awkwardness that had been apparent in Mr. Turner’s interactions with the children now spread to her. What did one say to an earl’s secretary? Particularly the Earl of Ashby’s secretary?
But she was luckily saved from having to start a conversation or to make her excuses and join the children by Mr. Turner jumping into the fray.
“That little girl is quite intelligent. And better at maths than me.”
Phoebe relaxed. “She is smarter than she’s been told. And her brother, too, in a quieter way.”
“How do you know so much about human physiology?” he asked, conversationally. “The humerus bone, and all.”
She started. “I was previously a governess for three young girls in Portsmouth who were interested in the sciences. Or rather, they were interested in the more morbid parts of it.” She looked askance at him. “How do you know so much about horse physiology?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. She couldn’t help staring at it. For some reason, her heart began to beat just a hair faster upon seeing that oddly charming, lopsided smile.
“I have a friend from the war who is a doctor. I asked him a lot of bored questions while we were waiting to fight. Since I was having no luck learning the Latin names of the bones in the human body, he started teaching me the bones in horses instead.” She must not have been able to hide her true feelings for once, because he immediately tried to explain. “I liked horses—it was easier to learn. And has come in handy on occasion. I made a wager once with the Duke . . .” He paused for a moment, and coughed. “Er, that is, a duke’s . . . head groom, and I managed to name more horse parts correctly than him. Won myself a few shillings in the bargain.”
“It sounds like you are quite the inveterate gambler,” she said sternly, her mouth getting tight at the corners again. That quality was more indicative of a man who would work for the Earl of Ashby, she thought callously. Not this seemingly polite, if awkward, man with the lopsided smile.
“Never more than I can afford to lose,” he replied with a shrug. “And I never lose anyway.”
“Be warned, Mr. Turner,” she said in her best governess voice. “Everyone loses a gamble eventually. And usually when you can least afford the loss.”
She had learned that much from her father.
“Not I,” he replied with a smile. But there was something behind it. Something strange and urgent. As if he were willing himself into believing his statement, and therefore, it would be unequivocally true.
This man, who had smiled so broadly upon their first meeting in the field that she thought his teeth in danger of falling out, had lost his overcertainty. That cheerfulness was now fueled by sheer will.
Perhaps she had spent too long contemplating that smile, staring into his face curiously, because soon enough his eyes turned wary. His smile faltered.
“Is there something in my teeth?” he asked, amazingly without stopping his smile.
And that made her want to laugh. Almost.
“No,” she promised. But she couldn’t keep the humor out of her voice. She knew her cheeks were under enormous pressure to give way and smile and, God forbid, dimple.
Governesses, she was told, did not have dimples.
But it was nice. It was so nice to stand here with someone in an awkward sort of companionable silence. Normally, she stood alone . . . too high for the servants and too low for the family. She was outside of everything.
But then again, so was this odd secretary with the stretched, lopsided smile and the fear that something was in his teeth.
Oh, dear. She could feel herself slipping into smiling again.
“Mr. Turner,” she began, covering her mouth with a cough to hide her discomfort. “Is it always your practice to encourage young children in underhanded practices?”
“Encourage . . . ?” he asked, that frozen smile slipping off his features in confusion.
“You see them with an afternoon of freedom and do nothing about it?” she asked, unable to hide her dry humor. Yes, it was always best to cover any discomfort with humor.
That she had learned from her father as well.
And she was allowed, wasn’t she? After all, he was not a guest per se, he did not seem like a man to go haring off to Lady Widcoate and revealing that the governess had a sense of humor. Or to Lord Ashby.
Bloody hell—she really had to do better at remembering that he was Lord Ashby’s man. But it seemed to slip out of her mind so easily. Suddenly, her quick tongue and archness seemed too much of a risk.
“Oh, that!” Mr. Turner replied, in a thankfully similar arch tone. “Yes, well—I find that if one encourages underhanded practices in the young, it usually helps to make them more despicable when they are older.”
“And you wish to foster despicableness.”
“Of course!” Mr. Turner cried. “The world is in great need of the truly despicable. Think about it. All these decent people, walking around being kind to one another—nothing will ever get done!”
“Yes—sometimes it does take the truly despicable to force society into movement.”
“Precisely. And how fortunate Rose and Henry have you as their governess, who is gifted in the underhanded arts.”
“Perhaps when they outgrow a governess, they should have you as their tutor,” she replied, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “You seem to understand their ways quite well.”
“Oh, no”—he shook his head—“I am not . . . er, suited to children. In general.”
She frowned and let her gaze travel to where Rose and Henry watched, from a safe distance, Abandon being brushed down. Kevin the groom seemed to have warned them away, so they stood in the opposite empty stall. But she could tell Rose was just itching to run forward and touch the horse.
“No? You seemed fine with Rose and Henry just now.” But then she remembered how he tensed up when Rose approached him. “If a little stiff.”
“Truth be told, I haven’t spent any time with children since I was a child myself.”
“Honestly?” She turned to him. “They are not that hard. Just shorter people who require naps on occasion. Same as us.”
He laughed at that. A short, appreciative chuckle. “Well, you seem to be a bit better at it than others, Miss Baker.”
Just then, Rose made her break for it. Kevin the groom was occupied with the back end of the horse; Rose ran forward and made to reach for Abandon’s glossy neck.
“Rose!” she called out, her voice shifting from her playful tones into hard governess in an instant. “What did I tell you?”
“You said be careful?” came the mournful voice of a girl trying to get away with something. “And I am?”
But the groom had been alerted by Phoebe’s voice just as Rose had, and came forward, shooing the children further back.
“Miss Baker, you know Lady Widcoate says Rose an’ Henry were too little to be in here,” Kevin said as Phoebe moved quickly forward. “We would both get in trouble . . .”
“Yes, you’re right.” She whipped her head around and was shocked to find Mr. Turner standing next to her. He had followed her to the front of the stables. “Oh—ah, Mr. Turner, you’ll have to forgive us. The new horses, especially Abandon, simply provided too much temptation.”
“Indeed,” he agreed.
“Usually there are only three horses—Sunshine for the cart and the matched chestnuts for the carriage,” she explained. “For Rose, seeing a Thoroughbred stallion in these stables is akin to seeing a unicorn.”
“No one rides?” Mr. Turner asked quizzically.
“Sir Nathan used to love riding, apparently, but he had reached an, ah, age—”
“And by age, you mean girth,” he smirked.
“—when he was no longer comfortable on a horse,” she finished crisply. “Regardless, I think it’s time for my young charges to get ready for the evening.”
Rose and Henry audibly groaned, but they moved toward Miss Baker, their fate decided.
“Yes,” he said with a bow. “I shall see you tonight before dinner, I presume.”
“I imagine so,” she replied.
Phoebe was about to take the children out of the stables, but suddenly she stopped herself. His mention of seeing them before dinner for the Questioning brought to mind last night’s questioning, and what he had done then. The kindness he had done them.
And what the consequences could be now.
“Mr. Turner,” she began, biting her lip. “Might I offer a bit of advice?”
He seemed taken aback, but replied, “Certainly.”
She took a step toward him and pitched her voice low, hoping Rose and Henry wouldn’t hear.
“You should be a bit . . . careful around Lady Widcoate.”
“Now you’re telling me to be careful?” His lip quirked up in that half smile, but then he saw she was serious. “Whatever for?”
“Last night, when you challenged Sir Nathan and . . . and the earl if they knew the answer to the mathmatics problem . . . Lady Widcoate does not like that kind of arrogance. Especially from . . .”
She let her voice trail off, hoping he would infer her meaning.
“I . . . I did not intend to be arrogant.” Mr. Turner’s brow came down. “I will apologize.”
“No! That will only call attention to it and make her think that you think she was affronted.”
“But you’re saying she was.”
“Yes. And I caution you to be wary. She might find a way to seek . . .” She searched for the word. “Retaliation.”
“Why on earth would she do that?” he mused. Then suddenly, his voice becoming hard, “Has she ever done anything like that to you?”
“No,” Phoebe was quick to assure. “But I have been in her employ for a year now. I know what she’s like.”
“And what is she like?”
Phoebe pressed her lips together.
“She is like one of those girls at Mrs. Beveridge’s School—where the slightest criticism from another would result in an all-out war. Some girls never grow up past the dramatics of their youth.”
He cocked his head to one side, considering. But when he finally spoke, it was not about Lady Widcoate, or her warning.
No, it was about something else altogether.
“Mrs. Beveridge’s School. In Surrey?” He shook his head. “Did you teach there?”
“No,” she replied warily. “I was a student.”
A single eyebrow quirked up, and a sudden jolt of fear shot through Phoebe. Oh, God—had she revealed too much?
“In any case, good day, Mr. Turner,” she said, her breath coming out in one great rush. “Come along, children!” Turning on her heel, she marched rapid-fire out of the stables, Rose and Henry trotting on their short legs to keep up.
It was a good fifty yards before she felt safe enough to slow down—for heaven’s sake, Rose and Henry were practically running at her side. But it was harder to steady her feelings.
It had been that spark of interest in his voice. That upturned brow. Had this secretary of the Earl of Ashby put her name and Mrs. Beveridge’s School together and finally recognized who she was?
All she wanted was to stay hidden. All she wanted was to get these two weeks over with, and not let the bile and hatred that had consumed her for far too long threaten to take over once again.
She had gambled today, being kind to Mr. Turner.
And she had lost.
NED STAYED IN the stables awhile after the curious Miss Baker disappeared, marching off like a general leading her short child-troops into battle. And apparently, he was standing stock-still long enough to elicit some worry from the groom.
“Mr. Turner?” Kevin the groom asked, poking his head out from behind Abandon. “You . . . all right?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, shaking his head.
“I ask because you’re standing in horse droppings.”
“Oh!” Ned’s eyes shot to his feet. Indeed, in the one or two steps he had taken since Miss Baker left, he had stepped into a fresh pile of soft, slightly green horse droppings.
And then he remembered, he did not have Danson at his disposal.
“Ergh,” he made a strangled noise as he stepped out of the pile. “Good Lord, man, can’t you keep a better stable?”
The groom just shrugged. “Hazard of the job, being the only groom here.”
Ned’s eyes narrowed. “And the only man?”
“I am right now,” the groom replied. “Why put up with the Widcoates when there’s a mine offering good wages ten miles away?”
“And why are you still here, then?” Ned’s eyebrow went up. “Sweet on someone? Miss Baker perhaps?”
Kevin cracked a rueful smile. “Naw. I canna go down the mine. My mind don’t like being in small places. I get agitated-like.”
Ned hummed, understanding. “Plus, Miss Baker’s too strict for your liking?” he teased.
Kevin shook his head. “I’d heed Miss Baker’s advice if I were you.”
“Really?”
“She’s the best governess those two could have hoped for. Been with them a year, and they are better for it. Whether or not she is I canna say. And how she manages Lady Widcoate I do not know. Likely out of affection for the tykes,” was the reply. “Soft for ’em. She knows they are not supposed to be in the stables, because the lady thinks her children are still wee babes. But that girl is horse mad—so Miss Baker breaks the rules. I don’t mind so much—but it’d be better if I had more help here, so I could keep an eye on them, teach them properly about the horses.”
She breaks the rules. A small smile began to creep up over his face, as he completely ignored the scent of horse dung wafting from his feet. He was beginning to get an idea. An idea that could turn this entire trip to Hollyhock around.
He had been enjoying himself with Miss Baker, hadn’t he? They had spoken for only a few minutes, but it had been easy—he didn’t have to try to make her pay attention to him, the way he did with the other women in the house. And for a few moments, he had been relieved of the burden of thinking about his mother’s house and its uncertain fate.
And she had attended Mrs. Beveridge’s School.
Which was one of the premiere finishing schools in England.
He only knew about Mrs. Beveridge’s because Lady Brimley, his latest paramour—and oddly, easily forgotten in the past two days—kept going on and on about it. She was attempting to get her own daughter in and, apparently, admission was highly sought after, and required connection.
In fact, hadn’t Lady Brimley mentioned something about Mrs. Beveridge’s the night they had first consummated their relationship? Something about how a peer of the realm such as himself could exert his influence even in places he’d never been?
Good Lord—had . . . had Lady Brimley begun their relationship to get a recommendation? To get her daughter into a school?
But this personal, more unpleasant revelation was tempered by the present situation.
And that situation was that, in terms of the wager, Miss Baker was fair game.
To have attended Mrs. Beveridge’s, Miss Baker must have been a young woman of some family. Meaning she was not a foundling, a lost child who through patronage worked her way into her present position. Whatever unfortunate circumstance had led to her becoming a governess could not change that fact.
She was completely adequate as someone Turner would pursue and, therefore, adequate as someone for Ned to pursue as Turner.
True, Miss Baker would have never been his first choice. She was as thin as a rail, all angles and closed-off posture. The gray wool gown she wore—indeed, the only gown he had seen her wear—was basically armor. Up to her throat, stiff, thick, protective.
But when she had made a joke on the stairs yesterday—when he had steadied her with his hand on her shoulder—something different slipped through.
She breaks the rules.
Then there was that moment today when she allowed the armor to fall and let her dry humor out to breathe. They had talked—bantered!—with ease.
And she had smiled.
She had tried not to, tried to keep her features pale and unremarkable. Indeed, with her white-blond hair and brows, she was as colorless as a glass of water, but when she smiled . . . something sparked to life. She had cheekbones. She had vibrancy.
She had dimples.
And considering that Hollyhock seemed populated by old biddies, and Ned had managed to isolate himself from every other female in Puffington Arms, Miss Baker was his best opportunity for winning.
“Mr. Turner?” the groom asked again. He was holding Abandon’s reins now, ready to lead him to his stall. “Are you going to be standing statue-like for much longer? Dead smack in the center of the way?”
“No,” Ned replied, shaking off his musings. His plottings. “No, I have to go get ready for dinner.”
As he strode out of the stables, he caught a trace of the smell wafting up from his shoes. Damn—he had been outside all day too, riding. He had better bathe if he was going to make himself presentable for the evening—where he would see Miss Baker again. And begin his wooing of a governess.
And then he remembered.
The bathwater. Which Rose and Henry Widcoate were likely frolicking in at that very moment.
No matter his aroma, Ned was not doing that again.
There was a pond on the far side of Puffington Arms, if he remembered correctly. One that collected bowling balls but otherwise seemed clean.
Certainly cleaner than that bathwater.
A shiver ran over him—the sun was dipping lower in the sky and it was getting markedly chillier into the evening. But, much like Miss Baker, it would have to do.